


To Drive the Cold Winter Away

by borrowedphrases



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology & Folklore, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Podfic Welcome, Soulmate AU - Seasons, personification of seasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borrowedphrases/pseuds/borrowedphrases
Summary: Changmin, a masked artist, comes to heal the sleeping god-king Yunho. The love that forms between them sets many things into motion.
Relationships: Jung Yunho/Shim Changmin
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30
Collections: Ho Ho Homin: The Yunho/Changmin Holiday Fic Exchange 2019





	To Drive the Cold Winter Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jumpstarts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpstarts/gifts).



> This is not based on any historical mythology, but is inspired by many different real-world legends. It's meant to feel like it _could_ be some long forgotten culture's folklore.

_Long, long ago - before the deaths of the Christ Messiah and the Shakyamuni Buddha. Before the reigns of the Grandson of Heaven and the Yellow Emperor - a kingdom now lost to recollection even in myth slept in an ever lengthening winter. The sun and moon still raced across the sky, day still followed night followed day followed night, lingering and quickening as their paths danced from solstice to equinox to solstice again. But spring brought no milk to the ewes, summer rushed by with no flush to the fields, autumn bore no fruit nor slaughter. All was covered in winter's brittle cloak of snow._

_The people anguished, for their god-king's heart had frozen, his bones gone brittle, the light of the sun no longer shone from his eyes. He abandoned his throne as the chill of winter mirrored the hollowness of his heart. He refused all food and drink, refused all guests and envoys. The kingdom waned toward death alongside their king, abandoned both from within and from without._

_After many long years a single visitor crossed the borders between lands, his tracks crisp and steady in the brittle snow. Neither village nor royal guard moved to greet him, but the doors to the throne still opened for him, as did those separating the country from its sleeping king._

↭

**Stag ;Eucalyptus** 1

The masked Artist finds the King asleep on a bedroll of opulence, wrapped in finery and furs. He does not attempt to wake him, knowing such an attempt would prove futile. The room is smaller than he had expected, but not lacking elegance. Inkwash murals cover the wooden walls, tapestries finer than any the Artist has ever laid eyes on. Quietly he sets his things down across the room from the sleeping king, lighting a bright blaze in the room's firepit.

Unfurling a small bundle he spreads out his roll of tools, blades and saucers, pens made from feathers and brushes bound from hairs. He gathers a handful of small sticks from a quiver at his hip, then plunges the ends into the fire. As the fuel and sprigs softly crackle and pop, the Artist moves to slide open the floor to ceiling doors along one wall, opening the room to the outside.

Cold air rushes in as the Artist surveys the land just beyond the King's small balcony. There's a circle of trees that have long been without their leaves or blossoms, a small spring whose ripples have been frozen in time, and a lovely little path rests beneath a light blanket of freshly fallen snow, still swept clear each morning by the King's servants.

The cool scent of eucalyptus opens up the Artist's senses, and he turns back into the room. Kneeling beside the fire and opening up a roll of rough fiber parchment, the artist selects a single twig from the blaze. A sharp breath and the flame dances away from the bit of wood, leaving a burnt-black end.

The only sounds that float through the room then are the scritch-scratch of charcoal against paper, the little breaths the Artist exhales when selecting a new instrument, and the gentle crackling of the fire as it lends the Artist its light. Long shadows cast over the room by the antlers atop the Artist's hood provide the only real movement disturbing the stillness separating.

The god-King turns over in his sleep, but the Artist doesn't spare him a glance, not even when he feels those wintery eyes spread their chill over his form. He holds his attention on his work as he sketches in coal and paints with soot, his fingers going black at the tips as the sun shines frigid through the opened wall.

When his work is complete he pushes the remaining eucalyptus into the firepit then rolls his tools back up in their bundle. He gives one last gaze out across the winter-still land before sliding the doors closed, then he turns, wordless, and slips out of the room.

The sketch remains on the floor where he sat, a rough likeness of the sleeping King.

**Dragon ;Oak** 2

The Artist returns the next day, moving through the room in an echo of yesterday. The sprigs he plunges into the fire burn more quickly this time, preventing him from spending too long gazing outside after opening the great doors. Their aroma is more subtle, wood smoke like cook-fire, and their tips drag across the page with harsh scratching sounds.

Outside, down the carefully cleared path, in the tiny circle of sleeping trees, a sound can be heard that has not sung in the kingdom for years on end. A robbin, with its thin round breast of lucious vermillion, croaks out its song from neglected lungs.

The god-King stirs from his sleep, cold eyes once again making the hair on the Artist's neck prickle. He does not stop the glide of coal against paper, not even when a raspy voice breaks the quiet, the sound as rough and unpracticed as the poor little robin's song.

"A dragon," the god-King observes. "Yesterday you were a stag."

The artist glides the soot-covered pad of one thumb across the page, blending black to grey. He dips the tip of his smallest finger in a shallow dish of water, then follows the path his thumb just took, making the inky wash of the King's hair flow across the page, looking almost like a river. Wordlessly he shoves what remains of the oak twigs into the fire, sending little sparks dancing upwards toward the ceiling, their ashen remains drifting downward to land softly on the wooden floor.

The Artist gathers up his things, then turns to face the King. He looks down the long muzzle of his hood-mask, sweeping his gaze over the prone figure still curled up beneath furs on the bedroll. He meets those cool eyes for only a moment, then bows so the whiskers of his mask brush along the floor.

This time he leaves the doors to the outside open as the takes his leave of his King.

**Tiger ;Ash** 3

The King is already awake when the Artist, masked in furs of tenné and sable, enters his room on the third day. The fire is already burning in the pit, and the doors already thrown open to the path and the brook. There is food laid out, meager offerings of salt-cured fish and dark-rinded cheeses, a jug of spiced wine warming by the flame.

The artist offers the god-king a bow before selecting sticks for the fire, his eyes lingering on where his previous sketches hang on the wall beside the bedroll, one of the opulent tapestries removed to make room for the sooty portraits. Today, as yesterday, the burning of the sticks brings a rich smokey scent to the room, it goes well with the cheese and the fish, and even compliments the wine.

As he begins his work the Artist can hear sounds drifting inside. The song of the robin joined by another, the gentle trickling drips of melted snow from scraggley tree branches. The small path is damp earth today, and the sun reflects brightly off the snow-glazed grounds.

"Why do you visit me?" The King asks, lifting his eyes from the Artist's page to roam his gaze over what few features the mask does not cover. Gentle eyes with a hint of sun-touched skin around them, red lips puckered from the salt of their meal.

"To bring you beauty." The Artist answers, taking the King by surprise.

"I haven't known beauty for many years," the King sighs, gaze turning toward the open doors, to a world that seems to hum on the cusp of something ineffable. "So long I cannot recall its flavor."

The King reaches to pluck a slice of wine-stained cheese from the platter, his hand halting suddenly when soot-covered fingers brush black against his knuckles. Skin the color of milk begins to flush from the touch, golden warmth returning to the god-King's long frozen limbs. The hand trembles, fingers splaying limply away from the palm.

"Be strong, my King." The Artist's soft, even voice breathes across the thin ice of the King's soul. "Be brave."

The King swallows, his warming eyes meeting shrouded dark pools. "Call me Yunho, for I know in my heart you are not of my lands."

"I lived here once, long ago. Longer than you can remember." The Artist's fingers slide forward, slip between Yunho's to grip steadyingly. "Yunho."

When the fire has burned to embers and the portrait of a King gazing out his door is complete, the Artist gathers his things and offers a bow.

"Won't you tell me your name?" Yunho asks, his voice soft as the melting snow.

"I cannot." The Artist hesitates, eyes meeting the King's for a long span of moments. "If you were to speak my name I would belong to you as a servant, and my power would be lost"

He feels the King's - _Yunho's_ \- heated gaze warming the back of his neck as he moves to take his leave. His hand rest along the wall, and he does not turn as he murmurs.

"I cannot tell you my true name, but if you must call me something, then let it be Changmin."

**Hare ;Willow** 4

Their hands are linked as they walk the grounds, thick willow soot brushed from Changmin's fingers onto Yunho's. They walk the path that winds along the creek, whose waters now rush for all to see as its ice cracks and crumbles. Birds of more types than robbins perch singing on tree branches free from frost. The snow still covering the earth is thinning and wet, glittering like jewels in the warm rays of the sun.

Yunho's touch keeps moving to Changmin's mask, long ears dropping down the back to cover any hint of what color or length his hair might be. The wide furred ears are soft, he can't resist petting them, but even so he wishes he could run his fingers through Changmin's hair instead, maybe down along the slope of his neck, tickle at his nape.

Inside the fire has long burned away, leaving only the most stubborn of embers still glowing. The fourth portrait sits on Yunho's bed furs, his sketched face smiling, an inked sun behind his long hair, framing his head like a crown.

"Your kingdom is waking up." Changmin says softly, and he's glad the fluffy mask covers the frown that creases at the corner of his mouth and across his brow. "Tomorrow will be my last visit, my final sketch. One last gift for you before you return to your throne."

"No." Yunho stops walking, making Changmin stumble as that tightening grip yanks him back. "I refuse to believe you will leave me."

One finger stains the king's lips with charcoal as it presses them closed, stopping the flow of Yunho's words. "My task will be complete, Yunho, I will need to move on. The seasons must flow."

Yunho looks as little like a king as he has this entire cycle, eyes wide and shimmering with sadness, brow furrowed, cheeks flushed. He pulls back from the finger, freeing his lips. "If you won't stay, and cannot give me your name, then at least let me see the face beneath the masks."

"I cannot." Changmin says in a voice that cracks like ice over a river. "If you were to see my face then you would belong to me as a servant, and my power would restrain you."

Before Yunho can speak again, Changmin silences the argument he feels coming with a hand placed sideways across Yunho's sad eyes. Shrouded from sight, Changmin lifts the hood of his mask just far enough to expose his mouth. With a sigh he dips his head down and captures Yunho's chilled lips, feelings the warmth of spring rush suddenly to them. He allows the kiss to linger for as long as he can, until the first bud in the cluster of tree opens to unfurl a trembling leaf.

Changmin gives a sharp tug on his mask to cover his face before Yunho can catch a glimpse of his face. He bows quickly, then turns and marches away, quick as he can without giving in to a run.

**Doe ;Magnolia** 5

Yunho is not in his room when Changmin arrives for his final visit, nor is the fire stoked and ready as it has been the past two days. The doors are open to a world flushed with spring, a bride welcoming her long-absent groom who now stands healthy and whole along the mossy edge of a babbling stream. Delicate fresh leaves rustle from the branches crowning his head, birds sing praises to him in songs freshly remembered, the sun glimmers off his kingly garments like the diamond-sparkles of the brook's surface.

Changmin covers his chest with one hand, trying to will away the ache that rises hot like summer beneath his breast. He holds a bundle of small branches in the opposite grip, tiny white blossoms mingled among the scattered pale leaves. He is here to sketch, to give his Yunho one last work before leaving him. He builds a small fire int the pit as quickly as he can, charrs the fresh green ends of the flowered sticks, then uses the sticky coal to etch his last vision of the King, standing in all his sun-kissed glory.

A shadow falls across the paper as he works, and he lifts his wet eyes to gaze up at the warm face of his King. His Yunho, who reaches down with both hands to follow up along the length of each of the mask's ears, from the narrow bases to the wide and fluffy middles, then narrowing out again as his fingers reach the ends.

"Like when I first saw you," he murmurs, then frowns gently. "No, not quite the same."

"A doe." Changmin answers as he sets his half finished sketch aside, rising to his feet, his knees trembling. He feels like he shouldn't draw breath just now, like the exhale would make their time together drift out of grasp like a puff of smoke. He opens his mouth to say something, anything to break the through the heavy air surrounding them, but he's silenced by Yunho's warm palms cupping his face, the warmth of his skin evident even through the fur of the mask.

"Please, Changmin," Yunho breathes, his breath warm against Changmin's exposed lips. "Stay with me. My soul came alive again when you touched it."

"I cannot." But even as he says those words, Changmin finds his mouth reaches for Yunho's again, aching to touch and to taste. It's slow, and smooth as soot, breathing in one another as they taste the salt of each other's skin. Changmin can feel Yunho's heart breaking as surely as if it were his own, and he find himself digging sharp fingers into strong hips.

"Show me your face," Yunho begs into their kiss. "And let me speak your name. Then we can belong to each other."

"You already know my true name." Changmin whispers against warming lips, pushing Yunho back towards furs and pillows. "Just as I have always known yours."

They tumble together onto the bedding, Changmin leaning over Yunho, the birds and the brook still singing through the open doors. With shaking hands Yunho starts to life the mask from Changmin's face, his lips parting, a name on his tongue, ready to be blown free like smoke from a fire the moment Changmin's face is revealed.

↭

_Long, long ago, before the days were numbered and the months were named, Winter remembered his Spring. Their love bloomed once again into the heat of Summer and multiplied into the bounty of Autumn._

**Author's Note:**

> Stag/Doe (Deer), Dragon (year of), Tiger (year of), and Hare (Bunny) are animals often associated with either Changmin or Yunho.
> 
> Technically Yunho was born in the Year of the Ox, but for some reason he claims Year of the Tiger ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ who am I to judge him.
> 
> ###### Footnotes
> 
>  **1\. Eucalyptus** \- Good for removing stagnant energies.[return]
> 
>  **2\. Oak** \- Drives away fear and impotence both physical and emotional.[return]
> 
>  **3\. Ash** \- Gives courage and confidence and wider perspectives on life.[return]
> 
>  **4\. Willow** \- Brings protection and harmony with the cycle of the seasons and the moon.[return]
> 
>  **5\. Magnolia** \- Increases love and loyalty, restores strength after a long illness.[return]


End file.
